Mitchell's Mustard Blog

May 13, 2017

Bruised

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 1:14 pm

He had come home from school with another bruise, another one to add to the collection. This young boy full of charisma, charm, and joy when encased by the families four walls ached physically and mentally without a peep. His mother could hear him quietly weep in the morning whilst getting ready for school, which in turn made her cry for answers, but he was proud and strong and a shrug of the shoulders was the answer to all. He often came home with rips in his clothing, when doing his washing she would find blood stains on his sleeves, his explanation was yet another nosebleed. She watched her young boy battle in silence, the more pressure she applied for answers the more he closed up and became aloof around her. She had spoken to the school on numerous occasions but they explained that without her son coming forward they couldn’t pursue. A promise to keep an eye out for him was lost in communication because he had come home again with a cut on his head, an accident he had explained. His eyes told another story, a silent uncomfortable story. Over the last year his character had changed, her brave little boy seemed to fear the outside, and worst of all, fear the inside. His brave little smile had left, his charisma had been removed, joy was a thing of the past. She confided in friends and family, ‘troubled teens’ they’d say to put her mind at rest. But she could see the screams behind his eyes, the damage to his body, the way he flinched at movement.

  She had heard him weep again in the morning so she confronted him, no prisoners, she wanted answers. Where had her charming and enthusiastic boy gone? What was happening?

  As she broke down, so did he. He was curled in the corner lost and fearful, she had scared him. She knew she needed to apologise . . .   

   . . . But it was too late, that day he had taken his own life. She wished someone had listened, wished she had worked harder to get to the truth, wished her little baby boy had opened up. But, all the wishes in the world had expired. Stood by his graveside she cried for today, cried for tomorrow, and feared whatever followed.

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February 29, 2016

She Got That From Her Mother

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 9:30 pm

It was either the nausea, or the pain streaming through his head that woke him. Before he opened his eyes he knew things weren’t okay. With all the telltale signs around him, it was his gut feeling that put him in panic mode. Knowing he was awake but feeling like he was dreaming, he would pinch himself but movement was limited. Frustrated that his body was ignoring his commands, like a child with no control. His lungs rebelling as his chest squeezed tight, looking for the biting point, the line of no return. Finding it hard to concentrate, like distracted adolescence. The pain, enclosed breathing space, a loud humming from a distance. All the things playing hide and seek with his senses added to his confused train of thought. His mind jumping back and forth, current to past. The uncomfortable seat he was slouched in, the smile on his daughter’s face. The fear of opening his eyes, his wife holding his hand.

Feeling his chest start to pulse, liquid leaving his mouth and nose. It felt like a memory, but the realisation kicked in with the damp feeling in his lap. Is this a dream? If so, he wanted to wake up now. He felt guilty, confused because he didn’t know what for. Feeling his throat wheeze reminded him of his father, he had smoked for years against everyone’s complaints and concerns, his father’s whistle. The memory stuck with him while he slipped deeper into the dark. Remembering the anguish across her face, the sound of his daughter crying his name as he left. Tears found their way down his face through sealed eyes, his nose burning.

You only regret making a decision once it’s too late, no energy to turn back time. His life slipping away through his pores. He remembered attaching the pipe to the exhaust of the car, taking a look at life outside before he closed the garage door and sealed himself in. His mind was fighting but his body refused to react. Fatigued, frightened, alone. His final thought was of his daughter, she was beautiful, strong. She got that from her mother.   

June 13, 2015

I can’t promise you tomorrow

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 9:28 pm

The surrounding earth meant nothing, not right now. He could hold the dirt in his hand and watch the grains slip away with the wind, it still meant nothing to him. In this moment it wasn’t real, the ground he sat on that worked it’s way into the fabric of his trousers, the tree he leant against that gently swayed in the wind, the forest that cocooned him with danger and protection, none of it was real. He refused to believe that he was awake, he didn’t want to be awake. Not any more. The colours that danced around him played tricks on his eyes, submerging only to rise again, like a playful game of peekaboo that he never enjoyed. The side wind pushed at his tears to confuse their direction, his cheeks felt sore, his eyes tired, his body weary. Knowing that he would have to start getting used to this feeling. It was cruel. Once he gets to the stage of looking for a silver lining in his story he’ll think there was a sense of relief getting his results, the weeks of not knowing had caused him nothing but worry, now there was no need to worry about himself, he needed to worry about all those that surrounded him, depended on him.
The words came as a shock, even though he had prepared himself for the worst, there was still that little bit of hope that clung on like a leaf in autumn. Like a hammer to the heart, he still held self preservation until he reached his car, until he had made it to his current spot, it was their spot. Today it was lonely.
He wasn’t scared of dying, he was scared of telling her that he was dying. Knowing that she’ll be strong until the very end, he’d leave her knowing that he had let her down. He feared watching her face crumple, mirroring her heart. The thought that he would hurt her like this and have no way of fixing it. The old wise words ‘time is a healer’ had no room in his existence, not any more. He loved her, funny thing is he loved her more now than he ever had done, he didn’t think that was possible. All the little things she did that frustrated him now meant nothing, all the petty arguments that they passed to and fro meant nothing. He loved her with everything, more than any man had tried, or ever could.
Wiping the tears from his cheeks, pulling his achy body from the floor, he needed to face his fear, he knew that they’ll have so much to do but with such little time, a true understanding that forever is just a word, a myth, a lie. But love, love is the glue for this broken story, and love will keep them marching on until the end.

September 2, 2013

A Life to Bury

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:29 pm

You could smell the whisky on his breath, but you couldn’t see the loathing behind his eyes, the loathing of the job in hand. The only thing that broke the silence for that moment was the rough sound of his hand rubbing four day stubble on his broad chin. The stale smell of cigarettes strangled the collar and sleeves of his shirt, knowing that the feeling of someone watching him will never go, not while he’s here. The wind whistled, pulling at his unkempt hair, cartwheeling leaves falling into the freshly dug hole he stood above. Sweat started to build at his hairline, he was nervous, exhausted, out of shape. She always said he was out of shape, at this moment he felt like she was right. He felt small, insignificant, lost. He didn’t want to be there, he would have done anything to still be in his house, reminiscing alone, the sound of ice cubes against a tumbler, behind a locked door. But he had to do this, he signed up for this years ago but he never really gave it any thought, this day came earlier than ever expected. He’d rather it was someone else standing in his shoes right now, but a promise is a promise. The morning sun on the rise, the beauty of another day distracting his fearful eyes. He was scared, tired and from this day forth, alone. He stood for a moment, placing his body weight on his shovel, the sweat and dirt that covered his face disguised his pale sickly complexion. He knew the black cars would roll up soon, holding his life in a box. His mother used to say “for every tear you cry, will be returned when you die” but his tears were gone, dried up and forgotten just like him. He had anger, he had pain, but he didn’t have the energy. His arms had become heavy, his heart in his throat as he saw the reflection of the sun on the leading car. Today is a day he will always remember, for today was the day this now lonely grave digger had to dig a hole for his own wife. A promise is a promise.

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